Blood of the Covenant
by Morgul-squirrel
Summary: Know him, love him, fear him. Gaze in awe at his golden splendor, and feel the tears fill your eyes at the mere mention of his name, because it literally means King-Excellent- for he was truly the wonder of the world, or... in the opinion of one Numenorean Lord, a real tosser with the disposition of rotten fish bait. (Please note the genres below. The summary only tells lies.)


**Author's Note: ****Author's Note: When I started this story, I naively assumed I was writing crack. Once agian, my own twisted mind has proven me wrong...still there might be a few laughs to be had here...If you're blind in one eye, can't see out the other, stand on you head, and squint. **

**A short story about Sauron and Numenorean frat-boy Lord, who will one day become a Ringwraith. It's whimsical musing coupled with my special brand of humour and angst. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own, and if by some chance I become rich enough to do so, the Tolkien fandom should rise up as one and hang me from a cliff...for a bout 8 to 50 years depending...**

* * *

**Blood of the Covenant**

Ah, Tar-Mairon, glorious to behold, sacrosanct and golden, as an idol (or an Oscar depending what Age one lives in) standing on his ivory balcony, wind teasing at his golden hair, as it flickered with the molten embers of the far-off sunset, in a metaphorical sort of way, as actual embers scattered in the midst of something as flammable as hair would lead to an immediate inferno that would have promptly lead to the destruction of the palace and to the subsequent loss of Tar-Mairon's hair, who might have otherwise emerged from the wreckage unscathed. Apart from just being bald, and perhaps besmirched with the ever so clichéd smudge of ash of his cheek, that rather than highlighting how grimy dying embers and rubble can be, only makes the face of someone so cute ad lucky to be alive, positively adorable. But this is what likely would have resulted form his hair-inferno, owing to his fire-retardant raiment.

Still it was a poet's job to muse lyrically, ignoring the unfortunate and possibly fatal implications of their prose, and why someone as insidious and opportunistic as Tar-Mairon hadn't thought to destroy with Numenor with his luscious locks was anybody's guess. It wasn't as though he couldn't take another form immediately after…or to put it another way he had hair to spare. And Herumor was compelled to bet it was all golden.

And given its appearance, he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't made of literal gold. He scowled from afar, torn and sick at heart, for reasons he cared not to dwell on. He was a heartless bastard, and he hated the Valar and Eldar as much as any, but he hated Tar-Mairon too. For his hair largely as it was easy to hate him for his hair, and a lot harder to hate him for his nuanced politics some of which Herumor agreed with….

A lot of which Herumor agreed with.

But, ah, Tar-Mairon, ever cunning and brilliant. He knew what he was about, and-

"I swear-I swear-If I have to hear one more poet, make another mention-I'm going to lose my mind!"

He slammed his window shut against the salacious musings in the street below.

"You never had a mind, dear cousin," Fuinur drawled from atop a glass of wine.

"Oh, shut it!"

Herumor flopped onto the opposite end of the couch, handsome face twisted into a scowl.

"You're only upset because you've finally come across someone prettier and more dastardly than you."

"He's a pompous git!"

With a quiet snort of laughter, Fuinur smiled.

"I never said he wasn't. I was only implying that you might be."

"Oh! I might be? Well of course I am. I'm what was it…again? What did Lord WhatsHisName call me? A 'dastardly pretty face?'"

"I believe he called you an 'effeminate bastard.'"

Herumor reached for the wine. "As I said."

"And it's not WhatsHisName," Fuinur said flatly, as he set his drink aside. He folded his hands in his lap, like the perfect and dignified lord he was. "He has a name, and you should use it."

"I dignified _Hallatan_ with a title most befitting of his esteem."

Fuinur rolled his eyes. He had a parental tick, and he had it bad. Soon to be wedded, and eager to leap into the trammel of wedded life, he had developed a worrying number of 'fatherly' tendencies, so bad his cousin had taken to calling him Fatherly. And he could see an accusation of that nature kindled in his cousin's grey eyes.

"So you did…." His nostrils flared as he exhaled. "But even still, he's a lord, one among your many enemies, and you haven't the faintest idea of whether or not one his spies might be lurking about."

Herumor took a sip of wine. "If I've done such terrible harm to precious little ego, that he can't bear refraining from a conversation about it. He knows where I live, and my door is open." He stole another sip of pale golden liquid with a smirk. "He's invited anytime he likes."

His voice was venom enough to wilt flowers as they bloomed, and it was starkly at odds with the coy aloof smirk hugging his mouth.

"You don't mean that!"

"Care to wager on it cousin?" And his eyes were lethal as his smirk. Frozen Fuinur, sat in muted silence, hands balled into anxious fists.

"Against you, I'd never wager." Unease settled like ice in his stomach, chilling the warmth of the wine.

"Afraid you'll lose?" His cousin mocked.

"Afraid?" Fuinur scoffed, pushing aside his anxieties. "What is there to fear when I _know _I'll lose?" He forced a smile to his lips and reached once for his glass.

"At least you understand that. That's more than I can say for some people," Herumor ground out, draining his glass and flopping back in the posh velvet of the couch. His toe tapped on the floor, and his crooked smirk had curled into a frown.

"What fool would ever dare to bet against you?"

"Many." Herumor grit his teeth as he lent forward to pour more wine into his glass, as one name leapt to mind, with its associated golden hair. "When you've never been defeated, you become the one to beat. The one everyone wants to tear from the throne."

"Then why don't you quit? Give up gambling, and do something else?"

The smile on Herumor's lips as he turned to face his cousin was as warm and inviting as an iron maiden, if it were an exceptionally thorny iron maiden he was being compared to.

"Because, I have a reputation. I have a reputation, and there will always be challengers, some far more dangerous than they are stupid, and if it's not me…they might go after someone else. The odds will ever be my favour. It's not that I don't lose Fuinur. I can't. It is impossible for me to do so-I don't know how. I don't why. I only know that it is…." And one day he'd gamble more than money.

"I am well aware. The whole of Numenor is aware of the stupid, reckless, irrefutably insane antics you've partaken in over the years. You have a reputation Herumor, not for being born lucky, but for being a rebellious ass."

"And what are you? My father?" Herumor stood. "Back off!"

"Back off? Herumor I worry for you. I worry about what you're becoming. It isn't healthy. None of it is. You're a Lord within the King's court, and like it or not, you have obligations and responsibilities. You have a house you dishonour and discredit with your every whim, and a king you embarrass before the eyes of our most hated adver-"

"Oh yes, because Ar-Pharazôn is such a wonderful king." He snapped rising. "All hail!" He sardonically bowed and growled. "All hail."

Wine sloshed in his glass, as he glared down at his shocked cousin. "Of all the pompous gits in this city, he's by far the worst-"

"Be quiet-if the wrong people heard you-!" Fuinur leapt to his feet and snatched his cousin's shoulder.

"You're not the wrong people.

Fuinur bowed his head, sighing with disparaging hopelessness. "Herumor, please. Please see reason. Please, for once in your life, I implore you, listen to what I am trying to tell you. If he knew…if any of them knew…if Tar-Mairon knew. It's dangerous. It's so dangerous. Everybody is on edge right now, and a storm is brewing. It's drawing closer, and soon its eye will be upon us-"

"You." Herumor cut him off.

"I. What?"

"You'd make a magnificent king."

"What?" He stiffened as Herumor grasped his shoulders.

"I mean it. You would be all that Ar-Pharazôn isn't. Kind, caring, merciful, patient, wise-do you not see?"

"Herumor stop this." His cousin's fingers dug into Fuinur's shoulders as he tried to pull away.

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth."

"Herumor…."

"I'd bet on you. Here. Now. In this very room."

"But you mustn't! You can't!" He grabbed Herumor and shook him. "You can't! I'm not in line. Nor do I desire such a thing-!"

"That's why you'd be good at it," Herumor insisted.

"It's treason!"

"As if. You really intend to allow That to remain on the throne. If Numenor's doomed, I dare say, he's the reason why. We should leave. Right now, we could sail away, and let him rot, and curse and die on his throne."

"Herumor I can't. Even if I wanted to I can't!"

"But you can. Right now. It would just be us. It was always meant to be just us. No politics, no rules, no pompous gits or Tar-Mairon swanning about."

Fed up, Fuinur shucked off his cousin's grasp.

"I swore oaths and promises, as did _you_, since it seems you've forgotten. Besides I'm getting married in a week. I can't just abandon my fiancé, and go gallivanting to –who knows where? Never to return."

"You did it before. You put your wedding off for fourteen years."

"Because the King commanded me to go to Middle-earth," he snapped. "I didn't do it because I wanted to, otherwise I would have married her then, as any other thirty-five year old just come of age, would have done. As _you _are supposed to be doing, having reached manhood yourself seven months ago, with a beautiful woman to whom you are betrothed, waiting upon you to do your duty."

"I don't want to marry her."

"You don't even know her."

"She's as dull and boring as a brick. I've met stale bread that could carry on more entertaining conversations. You enjoy the sound of silence, and sharing the company of a lady who keeps her nose in a book, but that's not kind of woman I want."

"She's a sweet girl, and she likes you, genuinely likes you-"

"As does every other broad in at court. I'm a walking talking pastry to be drooled over. And while it's flattering, it's empty, vacuous, and shallow. I'd rather take to have, and to hold, for all an eternity; a blind, death, and dumb dockside harlot than some petty, scheming, manipulative lady, counting on my good fortune to win her a place closer to the King, or Melkor forbid, that bastard Tar-Mairon. Every woman in all of sundry have thrown themselves at his feet, my darling fiancé among them." He sneered at the table where he'd set his wine glass.

"She's not dull or boring. You don't like her because she has a good head on her shoulders, and enough sense of authority to put a restraint on your proclivities. I know you chafe at the mere thought of authority, but restraint can be a good thing."

Herumor scoffed, grimacing.

"The word 'no' is not a poison. It would do you no harm to hear someone say it to you once in a while."

"Those who succumb a mere two letters, lack ambition."

"You think I lack ambition?"

"Did you not say 'no' when I proposed leaving? When I said you'd make for a good king."

"Of course I did! What you 'proposed' is as unreasonable as it is unrealistic!"

"Unreasonable and unrealistic? There are twenty year old children sailing to the Middle-earth right now, building colonies, and establishing kingships."

Fuinur wanted to throw his hands up.

"It's unreasonable, because you've asked me turn traitor to my honour and principles. Two things you seem to be in short supply of!"

Herumor's first shot out, and collided with Fuinur's jaw. He bent with a cry, rubbing at his chin and seething.

Fury bristled about Herumor with near tangible static- it crowned in him black rancour, and his hands were balled into fists, ready to swing again.

"Honour-how dare you?! You have no right-none whatsoever to fling such an accusation about, when I know for a fact, your prefect lordly demeanour is nothing but a façade. You call me faithless to my values, perhaps I should remind you of your own errant and dishonest dealings. And then we can see who is truly in greater possession of their principles. Let us cast our lots, shall we? What sayeth thou, dearest cousin?" He sneered.

"No!" Fuinur snarled, and tackled him.

The glass in Herumor's hand flew with a shatter, and they hit the floor, kicking and cussing, swearing and tearing, cursing and combating in an undignified brawl of raw fury and gouged pride.

Herumor smashed cousin's face with an elbow, and shoved him off only to pin him down a moment later.

"Where's your honour now?" He hissed deathly quietly into his cousin's ear. "Seems rather devoid of virtue, tackling your unsuspecting and loving cousin to the ground."

He coughed and choked, as Fuinur hit him in the solar plexus. Wheezing, he punched back, narrowly avoiding a fist aimed for his nose.

"Bastard," Fuinur growled. "You stupid, vicious, bastard!" He grabbed his cousin's collar, and head-butted him.

"I ought to choke you with your own card deck!" He spat blood from his busted lip as he rolled them over. He shoved himself up, dusting himself off, and darting aside as his cousin shot up a and leapt to his feet.

Bruised, bloodied, and beaten, they glared at one another, seething in furious silence. Nothing but the table, the wine bottle, and a few cowering books stood between them. And Herumor's eyes landed on the bottle, and his hand twitched. Eyes bright with fury.

Face twisted with hateful wrath, he turned on his heel, and stalked out. The door rattled in on hinges in the wake of his passage.

Exhaling Fuinur's head bowed, and he covered his face with his hands.

~o~o~o~

'_Bastard! Fool! As if he has any right-bastard!'_

Herumor teeth creaked, as he stepped out into the street.

Anger. Righteous, boiling anger, seethed and festered, as the cobbles passed beneath his blindly enraged feet.

'_If he knew! If he knew-!'_

'_So why didn't you tell him? Fool. Why didn't you tell him?'_

'_Bastard! He's such a two-timing, two-faced, bloody, filthy, git!'_

'_All this might have been avoided if you had told him-?'_

'_He's such a fool! I'm trying to keep him safe-trying to keep the family safe- he's an idiot!'_

'_He's wise.'_

'_He's a bastard.'_

'_He could help. You should tell him.'_

'_Bastard….'_

The night was dark, the sky a perfect pristine indigo, full of stars, and burning silver in the night. It might have been beautiful if he wasn't glaring at his feet, lost and thought, and barely paying attention to anything other than his own mind.

It surprised him, to find himself in the market, and the night air suddenly felt chilly against his skin. And it eased the fog of alcohol and anger from his mind slightly. He considered turning back, and perhaps he'd known on what a seemingly harmless decision his fate hung, he may have done just that, but after a moment's consideration he drew himself up, unbowed by a few salty zephyrs. He could not and would be sent back to his house by the cold…and Fuinur was likely still there…cleaning up, the mess they had made, all fatherly and strange since the date for the wedding had been set.

He almost felt a twinge of guilt. His feet stopped, and his body twisted with the urge to go back. It would be right…but it wouldn't help. It wouldn't make a difference. Oh, Fuinur would overlook this, as he graciously forgave so many of his antics, but the words he needed to say were stitched needle tight into his throat, refusing to be uttered.

He could solve his own problems. He wasn't a boy anymore, but a grown man in another two days, and the idea of asking for help, help dealing with a beautiful stupid git was absurd. He could smell Tar-Mairon's filth from a mile away. Smelt it, and detested it. Utterly repulsed by it, and repulsed by himself for agreeing with any of it.

The world had been made by bastards. The Valar, Melkor, Eru, Tar-Mairon; bastards all of them. Evil tyrants; all of them. With a snarl he turned back down the street. He'd apologize to Fuinur later-when he could think clear, and, why on earth had he drunken so wine?

But could he really tell his cousin? Did he dare? Did he dare?

He tugged on a sleeve, stroking his fingers over a bruise. But the question hung in the air. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he reached for the dice in his pocket. Did he dare? Did he want to know the consequence of such a thing? He had no urge to bet on it, and he let them go. No. He did not. He did not want to make such a wager, and the implications twisted coldly in his chest, as strangled sob shuddered through his teeth, and moments later he was wiping at his face, furious with himself, with the situation, with Fuinur, and with Tar-Mairon most of all. To the Void with him!

Down a narrow set of stairs he passed from the main road, slipping like a shadow through narrower, prettier roads, down to a small private dock, away from the port, with its trade ships and barges.

Down, down, until stone turned to wood, and he found himself staring out at the sea.

Indigo waves rolled, and lapped at small fishing boats, and sail boats. Ropes creaked, and wood moaned with eager anticipation for the morrow's activities. And the wind was a gentle, calm thing that teased his hair with friendly familiarity.

The moon was a thin crescent, and the stars were like a swarm of fireflies, everywhere, and beautiful. His lips quirked in a lopsided little smile, devoid of smugness, cruelty, or disdain. There was genuine peace here, and he felt like a pebble, so many waves, and so much water massaging his mind into a smooth placid thing.

Unlordly and uncaringly he sat on the edge of the dock and peered off into the night.

Did he dare?

It would be dangerous, but what wasn't? Did he dare cross Tar-Mairon?

Yes! Absolutely! For the sheer thrill and joy of doing so-anything to wipe that coy smug little smile from his lip-that wasn't the issue. Did he dare put his cousin at risk? No.

And without knowing how or why, he had horrible feeling the golden walking-talking spoil-of-war would know he had spoken to Fuinur as soon as he had. Which was fine, if it had only been them. He didn't care what some pompous egotistical lord did to him. He'd been dealing with such for the majority of his life. He was a pompous egotistical lord in his right.

He glared at the moon, and the moon stared stonily back at him.

Sitting was annoying him.

So he stood, dusting himself off, only to find to his unsurprised disappointment, nothing had changed. The sea was calming, absolutely, and it called to him, beckoning him to sail off into its indigo bosom away from Numenor, and all its religious upheaval, and all of its corrupt politicians, and it was a tempting offer. But...Fuinur-his blasted cousin needed him. There had only been and always been Fuinur.

"Blood's still thicker than water," he grumbled at the star-spangled water. The waves would have to try harder.

He turned away, meandering along the docks, passing an occasional guard, making his rounds in the night.

It was quiet, the world comprised of rich dark blue, the lapping of the waves against ship hauls, the creaking of ropes, the soft chime of a restless bell, and- nothing, not a sound among them or a star in sky provided him with answers.

Did he dare incur the wrath of git-Mairon to tell his git-cousin that he had fallen in the former dark lord's sights?

He reached into his pocket, clenching the pair of dice he kept. Did he dare make such a bet? Again, again, again! No! His gut feeling was no! The whole world shrieked it in his ear. He'd never lost a bet, because the truth was that he always knew when he would lose. He could see it in his head: snake eyes.

He froze at the dark figure standing silent- a shadow against the shade that made his hackles rise. He snorted, smirk curling his lip, and approached at a leisurely pace. If it was a fight some dockside bandit wanted…he'd make a bet on that in a heartbeat.

The figure was tall, taller than any man, and his smirk curdled into a scowl. Just his luck-he should have bet on the odds of running into a viper in the night, in a dockyard of places.

"Waiting cloaked in the dark, as a stereotypical villain? It's a good look for you," he said when he'd gotten closer. "I can't see your face, but I'm sure it brings out the malice in your eyes."

Tar-Mairon's head dipped in a faint snort of amusement. "You wound me Lord Herumor."

"Yes. Yes. Just look at you," he gestured at the cloaked dark lord. "The knife I just buried in your heart- how will you ever recover? Shall I fetch you a stone to carve your name into before you succumb?"

The High priest turned his head, and his lip was curled in wry amusement. "I must say it's always a delight running into you Lord Herumor."

"Oh I'm sure, it is, after being cooped up in the palace all day, with none but the king to talk at, and a flock of sheep to lead to the slaughter. Yes I'm sure our little talks are the high of your day. Which does make me wonder…how is it that you managed to leave? I can't imagine the king would willing let you out his sight, not after he's grown so fond of you?"

Tar-Mairon's eyes narrowed.

"You tread dangerous water Herumor."

"At least I can tread water. I can't imagine a Dark Lord confined to a continent ever had much need to learn. It's not that hard really." He smiled. "All you need is a large rock, a rope, and friend to push."

"Are we friends now?" Tar-Mairon asked.

"No. But I'm sure you've guiled your way into the hearts of many, and one among the thousands you lead is bound to think they're your friend."

Tar-Mairon folded his hands, and looked down at him. "I fear I don't understand what you're suggesting."

Herumor snorted, and looked at the ocean. "You say that with such profound innocence it's amazing. You're amazing, you do know that?" Herumor looked up at him. "Your façade is well manufactured-goodness look at you- not a hair out of place. You are without doubt a shining star of deception in a desolate, dark, Void of truth. I'm in awe. I really am. I would love to know, how it is that you sleep at night? What lies must you whisper in your own ear, before you begin counting sheep?"

Tar-Mairon's lip quirked. "I have often wondered that of men." His eyes slid to the wooden planks at their feet to scour his face. "Young secretive men, in particular. I imagine they must lie as well, such pretty little things-What would such a man, tell himself I wonder, after he returns home from a terrible fight with his cousin? Speaking, hypothetically of course." Tar- Mairon's folded hands shifted. "I imagine the bruise," the priest pointed. "Was received at the end of a card game- both of which you won no doubt."

Herumor, stood still, the smirk hanging onto his lip for dear life, by sheer willpower alone. How? How? How could he know? How he possibly- Fuinur's house was nowhere near the palace! It wasn't possible-but it was, and the fell light in the priest's eye and the smirk sitting smugly at the corner of his mouth proved that he had not merely guessed.

"The Faithful are an unruly lot." He almost sounded melancholy.

"What have they to do with anything?"

"Oh nothing, I suppose…." Tar-Mairon trailed off looking out at the sea. "I'm sure they have nothing to do with anything at all. Only…I heard dreadful rumour, that your cousin is one among the Faithful. As both High Priest and royal advisor, it is my duty to investigate such things, in order to determine their validity. Were it found that he has been praying to Eru the False One, he would be engaging in activities the King has outlawed due to the inherent danger they pose to the throne. To put not too fine a point on it he would found guilty of treason….I'm sure you can understand the-"

"Inherent threat they pose to the throne?" Herumor snarled. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. He may not have liked the Valar or Eru, but he knew well enough nothing terrible had ever come of doing so.

"So you would deny such claims, then."

"You!" Herumor's hand shook.

"Yes?" Tar-Mairon pressed a thoughtful elegant finger to his chin. "What about me?"

"You- I swear I'll-" He cut himself off. Oaths were dangerous. Spoken in anger, promises were lethal. No- no –he had to think. He had force the priest to play in his arena. He exhaled.

"Would you be surprised if I told you I didn't like you?" Herumor asked.

"Stunned," said Tar-Mairon dryly.

"I don't. I don't like you. I don't like your face. I don't like your eyes. I don't like your hair. I don't like your smile. I don't like your hands so neatly folded before you. I don't like your idea, or the honey slaked poison that dribbles from your lip every time you open your mouth. And I don't like your threats."

But for all his venom rage Herumor smiled softly. "But none of that truly explains why I don't like you. My cousin was wise enough to point it out. I don't like you because we're of a similar mould. You're a bettor as am I."

He took bold step toward the aloof Dark Lord.

"Threaten my cousin again, and you will learn what befalls those who cross a gambling man."

The Dark Lord sneered.

"Go ahead," Herumor said. "Bet against me-bet against the man who will never lose."

Tar-Mairon's eyes glittered with malice, flattered indeed by the dark cloak he wore, and what fierce shade of malice his eyes were.

"Spoken like a true Numenorean lord, so arrogant and outmatched, he's blind to his own folly."

Herumor's eyes narrowed. "Wager against me then, oh great lord of tart words, golden light, starlight lights. Let's play a round? Your hand against mine? What say you? Surely the Lord of Mordor, and the Dread-Lieutenant of the First Age hasn't been put off his stride by a man who's still little more than a boy?"

"A foolish boy at that." Tar-Mairon's finger rotated in slow circles in the air. "I'll play thy game since thou hast asked so sweetly," the Dark Lord purred.

"I bet you won't kill him." He raised a finger to ask for time. "You need me. But there will come a day when you will need him more. You'll give a ring to each of us one day, but you won't kill him."

"That's quaint. Though I must confess I find your passion curious. Why care you so much for a cousin?"

"Because he's like a brother to me. Because the blood of the covenant is thicker the water of the womb. Notice I'm standing here, trying to spare my mother. But I suppose such things are quaint, adorable, precious, trifling amusements to one so loft, so by all mock me as it pleases you. I still haven't lost a bet, and I don't intend to start now- losing my cousin to you."

Tar-Mairon's eyes almost conveyed a hint of admiration. The young Numenorean standing before him was an absolute fool, but he was spirited. Undeniably and amusingly bold….

"You're betting on a hypothetical and ridiculous set of circumstances arising in which I will not only spare your cousin, but gift him a most prized relic of the Second Age?"

Herumor shrugged. "Yes."

The priest laughed. He laughed at the absurdity of it. It rankled, and infuriated him, but it was so ridiculous, so unbelievable in its audacity. He clapped his hands together, beaming, in triumphant good humour.

"If what you say holds true then of course I shan't kill you both, but if such a thing never comes to pass….You will bend your knee, and you will swear your fealty. You will infiltrate the ranks of Faithful, and will provide for me their ringleaders, their places of worship, their places of meeting, and their plans. You will eviscerate them, and bleed them dry. And your cousin…even then I won't kill him."

"You won't?"

The priest waved a hand. "Of course not. He's not important enough, for me to bother with. You'll do the honours. You'll arrest him yourself. You'll take him to the temple yourself. And you'll burn him yourself. And you'll as I command ever after, and as long as you remain obedient that will be the end of it. But try my patience, and I'll recall his spirit, and you little Numenorean will learn that there things worse than death to fear."

A sublime, gentle smile curled Tar-Mairon's beatific lips. His eyes were gentle, and compassionate-terribly at odds with his words.

"Do you still wish to bet against me, Herumor? Do you wish to learn what happens to those who dare cross a Dark Lord?"

Herumor snarled, but he was certain. He was resolute. He'd give nothing-yield nothing to this Dark Lord.

"Yes."

Tar-Mairon's head bowed. "As I said before it's 'always a delight.'"

With a scoff, Herumor made to turn. "Likewise."

"Just remember," Tar-Mairon's mellifluous voice beckoned for his attention once more. "The blood of the covenant is thicker than water, and this one Herumor is ours."


End file.
